With a heavy Beijing accent and a humorous writing style, Wang Shuo’s penetrating works captured the attention of restless youth hovering on the fringes of urban life in 20th century China.
He deconstructed everything serious and sublime, liberating all that was marginal and mundane. Wang’s sharp prose and rebellious stance garnered both controversy and a devoted readership, making him both a troublemaker and a star during the vibrant literary scene of the 1980s.
Labels like “insightful,” “sharp-tongued,” and “rebellious” became attached to Wang Shuo’s persona. Decades have passed, yet mentioning Wang Shuo likely conjures up the image of that playful, caustic “rebel.”
However, after the release of his new work “Good Cat Ba Bu,” many discovered that the once unruly figure now lives in a small courtyard in the outskirts of Beijing, nurturing dozens of cats in a simple life. Feeding, cleaning, and caring, it astonishes many that the rebellious master has surrendered to the charms of cats.
Some say Wang has changed; time has softened his edges, introducing both age and gentleness. Yet, those who truly know Wang realize that this once rebellious young man possessed a soft, kind heart all along. Time hasn’t dulled his sharpness but has granted him a broader, more tolerant view that embraces the world’s imperfections. Wang Shuo remains Wang Shuo.
“Good Cat Ba Bu” indeed showcases the warmest side of Wang Shuo. In memory of a cat named Ba Bu, and the feline friends that came into his life thereafter, he meticulously documents the stories shared with these cats. Hidden within the lively prose is Wang Shuo-style tenderness and the memories that shine with companionship.
Apart from the simple life with cats, the book also weaves in Wang Shuo’s numerous reminiscences of the past: school days, military life in the fleet, along with the anomalies and voids of memories vividly brought to life.
If reminiscing about the past marks a person’s aging process, then the erstwhile “rebel of the literary scene” has faced his aging, confidently stepping into the depths of time. Through these fragments of memory, we piece together a more complete image of Wang Shuo:
a cynical youth, a straightforward and kind-hearted old man who no longer wrestles with life.
Below is an excerpt from “Good Cat Ba Bu”:
Wang Shuo, Author
(Warm reminder: “Bing” refers to Wang Shuo himself)
01
Memories of agricultural studies
It was around one winter in some year, a troop stationed in the northeast set out from their barracks, trekking a thousand li for field training. All over the country, students were learning from the PLA; this semester’s agricultural studies involved a trip to Shunyi, as the school notified to travel on foot.
Bing’s dad taught a method of walking without tying shoelaces and a quick backpacking technique, recommending Bing to carry an extra pair of shoes in the backpack so he could sit on it on breaks, and instructed him to pack a needle and a box of matches, the first thing on arrival was to disinfect the needle with fire.
Bing’s dad was nice—a fair assessment after all these years, even in the presence of fallen villains. His mom was decent too, not a quality issue; they were more responsible for the child than Bing was. The two generations merely encountered a parallel era. At the end of life, one can say: I have lived a spacious life, only I owe no one a debt.
The meeting point was the school; the marching route was along a secondary road. They walked all night, surrounded by nurseries and orchards, and through the bordering woods, large green pastures were visible. With no people or vehicles at night, the whole company rested on the road.
As dawn broke, it started to rain lightly. The troop arrived at Tianzhu, entering the civil aviation living area hall, seated on the floor to eat and drink. Outside, the rain poured heavily, the hall windows streamed with water; classmates were dozing off. In the afternoon, the sky cleared, students began to take groups outside; each grade still wasn’t in the same village.
Bing’s class seemed to go to a village named Zhanggezhuang, not knowing how far from the civil aviation point. Leaving the highway, they trudged through the mud; the closer they got to the village, the thicker the mud became. Shoes couldn’t hold on and would be pulled off with a lift of the leg, bare feet were more comfortable, everyone lifted their shoes in trudging, the formation long gone, teachers nowhere to be seen, some students’ backpacks scattered, all awkwardly clinging to quilts.
They were assigned to a newly married son’s house, with a stagnant water pond at the entrance, the water turned a green-yellow hue after the rain, taking five or six large steps washed the muddy feet at the pond’s edge before long jumping back inside, two feet muddy, one could only sit limply on the kang’s edge, wait for the legs below the calves to dry before rubbing down.
The next day, standing at the field’s edge, the wheat was sparse, and the wheat fields stretched as far as the eye could see. A classmate had to go to the bathroom, running far away, and every time he squatted down, everyone shouted: I can still see him! Until he disappeared, shortly thereafter, cheerfully returning. Before noon, a cry of surprise echoed: someone has pooped!
Bending over to observe, still endless fields of wheat stretched before them, just two rows of wheat like a pathway leading to the horizon. As the sun set, one truly understands what it means to feel exhausted; looking back at the fields, only one girl remained squatting on the ground, effectively no legs as she pulled the wheat.
For dinner, there were no impressions of anything they had eaten during the agricultural studies; the absence of memory indicated it wasn’t particularly bad. In those rationed times, having meat means a good meal.
《阳光灿烂的日子》
Two incidents left a strong impression: one classmate squatted in a latrine, it was simply enclosed with straw; another was an old lady in the street literally fans herself bare-shouldered.
Then there hung a glaring gas lamp on the tree, and below it, a patch of watermelons. The teacher was with a group of girls bending over and eating the spoiled peaches with a rubber hose saying the production team said it was okay to eat them.
The teacher, with one hand digging into the spoiled part of the peach, shouted: Spoiled peaches won’t spoil your stomach! Due to that instance, my hands were sticky with peach goo; from then on, I never crave peaches again.
Following this was apple-picking; I could catch one red apple with both hands, tilting my head to shout to the tree: let me go up and pick for a while.
Then I climbed up on the tree forks, twisted down an apple, a gentle release of my fingers saw the red apple falling straight down, cracking! I took a bite of the sweet, dripping juice.
下图中有一位同学小声喊着：老师来了。
Without speaking, I crunched the apple down and swallowed slowly, belching while obstructing the core at the branches, slowly descending; three feet off the ground, I thudded down on both feet, innocently asking: What’s up?
The head teacher, Mr. Dong, half of his face vanished behind white-framed glasses, his pale thin lips opened and closed, his voice already muted through fifty years of time.
Time was silent, but its significance was deafening. Seventy years ago, the People’s Liberation Army fought in Jinzhou, passing through an orchard, the soldiers rested under the trees without picking up a single fallen fruit. Before entering the orchard, our class learned about this episode and made a solemn promise—not to steal apples.
Now Mr. Dong caught him. However, there was no evidence, where was the apple core? Bing wickedly argued, how can a people’s teacher slander me? He had long learned to accuse others.
Mr. Dong, knowing the evidence was right there, probably for a moment thought of climbing the tree and glanced up, noting the thickly-grown trees bearing a thousand jin of fruit, dispelling that thought.
Then, the second teacher appeared, a male teacher, presumably from the academic affairs office, using bulletin language commanding, “Jump out!” After proudly exiting, he loudly scolded Bing: You will never amount to anything in your life.
《一半是火焰，一半是海水》
Half a century has passed, and I have never doubted this memory. Whenever mentioned, I would always consider it an experience from childhood. This time, while writing about pulling wheat, it felt a little strange, as I couldn’t recall any classmates’ names or faces that were present.
Once it came to picking apples, however, Mr. Dong and the academic affairs office teacher (I now remember his surname was Lou) appeared quite vividly, indicating something was awry.
02
New Soldiers’ Stories
After completing new soldiers’ training, the regiment planned a parade, hearing that the fleet chief was also coming. There were whispers in the squad regarding delaying professional studies for participating in public service, as there was an engineering project to bring water from the Yellow River to Qingdao; this was unexpected—wasn’t this the era for extensive labor?
引黄 that isn’t digging a river? One of the four burdens?
Bing most feared this kind of massive labor, not out of aversion to work, but because he truly lacked the physical capability, likely due to being born into an agrarian society, he might starve before adulthood. Or possibly he had reincarnated as a female in past lives, still not needing to see the world. It took a long time to be born into the industrial age, ready to be a male, yet here it was.
During the new soldier period, there was once a public service where they went to help people by hauling water; it was winter—what are they even hauling water for? Either antithetical to drought relief or fundamental agricultural construction, yet it was hard to comprehend this water hauling.
In any case, the whole team lined up at the well, and a burden was placed on Bing’s shoulders, which prompted him to break into a cheerful jig, clasping the yoke as two buckets swayed, spilling water while walking.
《编辑部的故事》
The squad leader couldn’t stand it any longer; he took the burden back and passed it to another comrade, telling Bing to go help the women instead.
Doing work you can’t handle is not forcing yourself, and he maintained such a nonchalant attitude through it all. Working with the other half of the world’s population is not shameful; it only indicates your weakness—strength could possibly trump women. In water hauling, he actually wasn’t as good as the women, and he acknowledged it.
Later on, one woman went up to him and remarked, “Most of the other guys are tough, why are you so soft?” Bing replied, “What does it matter? Is it necessary for men to be tough?”
His thoughts at the time are unclear; he probably didn’t think much about it at all. He was only a child, 18 at the time, incapable of much, and instinct kicked in during such moments.
Most of the comrades in the squad were focused on going on board, learning navigation, while a friend, usually chatty, was discontent with being retained as a medic and complained during a walk. Bing, without much thought, replied to him, “If you don’t want to go, can I? If not, suggest that to the deputy political commissar.” Other comrades warned him that if he stayed with the training corps, he wouldn’t be able to board a ship. Bing forgot the exact words, merely recalling a thought, “Let’s get through this stage first.”
03
Fleet Stories
Bing only attended half a day or a day of bandaging classes in the medical training team. The classmates would bandage each other with triangular bandages and four-head ties without touching an actual vessel, and muscle injections remained but diagrams—no way to find a vein.
Injections, each was given a syringe to practice on pillows in the dormitory, pairing off to jab each other; he discovered he had a knack for the exams—each jab into veins resulted in blood.
Bandaging, of course, was more successful; there weren’t any failures, akin to sewing up a pocket, but the distinction lay in whether it was done aesthetically or not. The whole class ended up like a bunch of wounded soldiers for the instructor to inspect, bandaged up like deserters subjected to ridicule.
Just that single success; later on, when giving injections on the ship, nothing went smoothly; every time he jabbed the needle, upon touching skin he’d hesitate for a moment, meaning the needle would barely punch through the epidermis and would need another jab to reach the muscle; none of the rough lads of the squad found this problematic; they’d yell in pain, not thinking it was out of the ordinary.
The same was true when drawing veins; he thought he had done it a few times for family members or temporary workers—not quite sure, because first you find the vein and then poke a needle like looking for air in suffocating fish under ice, and when you’d poke, sweat would run down before blood flowed. So, when discharged, he would prefer to go to a hospital and refuse that altogether.
On the ship, Bing once conducted two surgeries. Once a basketball game ended, a soldier bumped the eye socket at the edge, and Bing stitched up two or three stitches. Being the only two medics on ship, the senior medic saw Bing often practice tying strings around his fingers; he mentioned Bing could do it, let’s do a practical shot.
Suturing resembles sewing clothes but first involves the needle resembling a bent fishhook—the hands can’t work, it has to be held with tweezers, inserting it below the skin, tie a knot for every needle inserted. On the third stitch, it wobbled awkwardly, resembling a worm, as it could be pulled from either side, the senior medic would reassure, “It’ll flatten in time.” The soldier remarked it was fine, saying it would grow eyebrow hair thus.
One time, Bing had to excise a wart; true surgery ensued. Each side pierced with procaine, like scraping a potato’s bug, the knife tip rotated around the wart, the senior medic encouraged depth without retaining any roots—the best case has the wart come out whole with a point.
With a scary gaze, the gleam of flesh visible, the soldier chatted with ease as if merely pulling a carrot up, not a needle or stitches involved, simply applying iodine on the wound and scotch tape wrapped around while a bit of anti-inflammatory medicine—and that was it—kids who took it orally would witness have tetracycline teeth, marking tomorrow as change of dressing day. The soldier walked away limping.
Once, there was a great success with acupuncture; one soldier had a toothache and sweating cold hands. As he examined the anatomical chart, he located the point between the index and middle fingers. After inserting the needle, miraculously the pain dissipated; the soldier exclaimed, “You’re not pretending, right?” Traditional Chinese medicine delighted in success this case.
《编辑部的故事》
At that time, there were skirmishes at the southern border, he was stationed south on an official visit, buying color TVs for troops, intending to hurry back to Qingdao for military preparations.
Most at that time knew a thing or two about international situations; who was on the northern side, who was on the southern side—especially needing to be cautious of whom. There were people believing that war could break out at any moment.
In 1976, still in high school one day, he firmly believed war would erupt that day. After noon’s dismissal, he dined on the entirety of his savings at Cuiwei Road’s Huifengtang and ordered three dishes—braised elbow, onion-braised sea cucumber, and crispy meat strips, each with great oiliness and richness, thinking it might be the last day of living in peace. He shoved his way through the meal and yet leftover food remained, despite looking like an overflowing feast that could still be shared. After a memorial service concluded in the afternoon, his heart calmed down.
Upon returning to Qingdao, it was peaceful at the dock, all ships were in port just at dinner time, not knowing which ship’s deck broadcasted Su Xiaoming’s “Nights at the Military Port” resounding softly over the waters. Perhaps it wasn’t; it could have been another melancholic song, as there were barely any emotional tunes about soldiers back then.
Bing’s memories diverged again. Buying a TV was initially directed by the commodore with a certain accent. Returning transitioned back to the ship, while there, a bag style telephone socket attached to a vessel’s top deck connected from the equipment department to the fleet general to Jinan Military Region, to the communications department in Beijing, ultimately leading to Guangzhou Military Region, searching for a childhood friend to ask about the TV, spending a day bustling around beside the rail, where a communication officer asked whether a connection was established; he responded, “I’m still waiting,” as it vividly stuck in his mind.